The Waster's Presentiment

I shall be spun.    There is a voice within
    Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
            I shall be spun.

April approaches.    I have not begun
    Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin
Those lucid works till April 21.

So my degree I do not hope to win,
    For not by ways like mine degrees are won;
And though, to please my uncle, I go in,
            I shall be spun.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Christmas Fancy

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

A Presentiment

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Sleep Flies Me

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Andrew M'Crie. From The Unpublished Remains Of Edgar Allan Poe

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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The Waster's Presentiment

    I shall be spun.    There is a voice within
            Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
    For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
                I shall be spun.

    April approaches.    I have not begun
            Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin
    Those lucid works till April 21.

    So my degree I do not hope to win,
            For not by ways like mine degrees are won;
    And though, to please my uncle, I go in,
                I shall be spun.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Wasted Day

Another day let slip!    Its hours have run,
    Its golden hours, with prodigal excess,
    All run to waste.    A day of life the less;
Of many wasted days, alas, but one!

Through my west window streams the setting sun.
    I kneel within my chamber, and confess
    My sin and sorrow, filled with vain distress,
In place of honest joy for work well done.

At noon I passed some labourers in a field.
    The sweat ran down upon each sunburnt face,
            Which shone like copper in the ardent glow.
And one looked up, with envy unconcealed,
    Beholding my cool cheeks and listless pace,
            Yet he was happier, though he did not know.

Robert Fuller Murray

The End Of April

This is the time when larks are singing loud
    And higher still ascending and more high,
This is the time when many a fleecy cloud
    Runs lamb-like on the pastures of the sky,
This is the time when most I love to lie
    Stretched on the links, now listening to the sea,
Now looking at the train that dawdles by;
    But James is going in for his degree.

James is my brother.    He has twice been ploughed,
    Yet he intends to have another shy,
Hoping to pass (as he says) in a crowd.
    Sanguine is James, but not so sanguine I.
If you demand my reason, I reply:
    Because he reads no Greek without a key
And spells Thucydides c-i-d-y;
    Yet James is going in for his degree.

No doubt, if the authorities allowed
    The taking in of Bohns, ...

Robert Fuller Murray

A College Career

I

When one is young and eager,
    A bejant and a boy,
Though his moustache be meagre,
    That cannot mar his joy
When at the Competition
He takes a fair position,
And feels he has a mission,
    A talent to employ.

With pride he goes each morning
    Clad in a scarlet gown,
A cap his head adorning
    (Both bought of Mr. Brown);
He hears the harsh bell jangle,
And enters the quadrangle,
The classic tongues to mangle
    And make the ancients frown.

He goes not forth at even,
    He burns the midnight oil,
He feels that all his heaven
    Depends on ceaseless toil;
Across his exercises
A dream of many prizes
Before his spirit rises,
    And makes his raw blood boil.

II

Though he b...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Swinburnian Interlude

Short space shall be hereafter
    Ere April brings the hour
Of weeping and of laughter,
    Of sunshine and of shower,
Of groaning and of gladness,
Of singing and of sadness,
Of melody and madness,
    Of all sweet things and sour.

Sweet to the blithe bucolic
    Who knows nor cribs nor crams,
Who sees the frisky frolic
    Of lanky little lambs;
But sour beyond expression
To one in deep depression
Who sees the closing session
    And imminent exams.

He cannot hear the singing
    Of birds upon the bents,
Nor watch the wildflowers springing,
    Nor smell the April scents.
He gathers grief with grinding,
Foul food of sorrow finding
In books of dreary binding
    And drearier contents.

One hope alone su...

Robert Fuller Murray

Triolet

After the melting of the snow
    Divines depart and April comes;
Examinations nearer grow
After the melting of the snow;
The grinder wears a face of woe,
    The waster smokes and twirls his thumbs;
After the melting of the snow
    Divines depart and April comes.

Robert Fuller Murray